Everything has a rhythm.
My childhood music lessons taught me this.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Stealing my sister’s cranberry juice and then having her throw the entire bottle at me taught me this.
Public displays of affection require a precise and accurate sense of rhythm in order to receive an equal and opposite reaction that is to your liking. Unfortunately, I have no sense of rhythm and my social skills leave much to be desired. As a result, I cannot, for the life of me, give a good hug.
I always manage to mess it up.
Whenever I make a new friend, I’m always dreading the day when we get close enough to hug. It’s not that I hate the contact. I’m not particularly averse to touching my friends. What I’m terrified of is that they will introduce the hug into our friendship too soon, they will discover I have no hugging rhythm, and then they will no longer want to be my friend.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
When one lacks hugging rhythm, one is not often hugged.
I feel as though there are certain criteria inherent in the definition of a “good” hug.
1) Arm placement- If you are the shorter person, you must aim low.
2) Pressure- Pretend like the other person is a melon you’re testing for ripeness. You want to apply just the right amount of squeeze.
3) Release- Average hug duration is 3 seconds (Don’t ask me how I came up with that number).
Everytime I hug a new person I always manage to screw it up.
I’ll think they’re shorter than me and so I’ll aim high and then our arms will collide and the moment will be ruined. Other times I’ll nearly crack the other person’s ribs because I squeezed too hard. I forget to start counting and then I realize that the person has been giving me the “please get off of me” back pat for about 5 seconds and I’m still wrapped around their middle.
Or even worse, I’ll be the one that introduces the hug into our friendship too soon and the other person will side hug me.
I’d rather be punched in the throat than given a side hug.
Even though I give terrible hugs, full frontal ones say, “We’re buddies! We’re pals! I enjoy you as a person so much that I would like to be in extremely close proximity with you for 3 seconds!”
Side hugs say, “Piss off.”
My lack of hugging rhythm is the reason why I high-five people so much. They think I’m really excited about life.
The truth is that I’m incredibly self-conscious.
If I can delay the hug in our friendship then there’s a chance that they’ll see my lack of rhythm as one of my cute and endearing quirks. There’s a chance that they’ll come away from our first hug and think, “That Gyasi is so darn cute and endearing. She can’t even hug correctly! How droll!”
Rather than, “What the heck just happened? Did she just stroke my hair?”
Yes, that happened once.
I’m not sure how or why.
But it definitely happened.

I’ve been chased by dogs before and my old neighbors hellhound tackled me once.

Really, I should start carrying pepper spray or doggie treats when I go out.

Or a pellet gun.

Or a taser.

I am NOT a dog person.

The only dogs I like belong to family members and the only reason I like those dogs is because they have proven themselves to be smart and cunning. None of that “man’s best friend” crap. I want a dog that could pull off a heist or at the very least, drive the getaway car and evade police.

Not that I’ve put any amount of thought into this.

However, something weird and altogether strange happened on New Year’s Eve when I went for a run: I got chased by a chicken.

I knew people in my neighborhood kept chickens. One of our neighbors even gave us a dozens eggs for Christmas. What I did not know is that sometimes the chickens roam free. And that chickens can be territorial.

I was running along, minding my business when I decided to cut through someone’s yard to avoid some sprinklers on the side of the road. I saw the chickens, but all I thought was, “Oh look! A chicken!” not “Oh crap! A chicken!” I thought that was soon as a approached the yard, the chickens would scatter in a chicken like fashion. I assumed they would act like chickens. The majority of them did, but every party has a pooper.

I was about two steps into the yard when I heard a squawk. Then, the squawk got louder. And louder. I was still running at my usual pace when I realized that the squawk was not fading off in the distance. Which is what happens when you’re running past something. It’s when that sucker is following and gaining on you that the sound gets louder and louder.

I turned around and realized that I was being chased by a chicken.

I was so surprised by this recent turn of events that I stopped running and stood in the middle of the road, completely flummoxed. (Side note: isn’t “flummoxed” a fun word? I’ve been trying to work it into a post for about two weeks now). That allowed the chicken to catch up with me. The chicken was ready to claw my eyes out when I came to my senses and high tailed it down the street. After a block or two the chicken tired out and stood watching me.